Acceptance
by twice the rogue
Summary: Mycroft: I don't know the contents of my brother heart. But I do know that he doesn't believe he has one anymore. Not since she died.' 'She' John asked. A story of love and murder from Sherlock's youth and the story of the person he has to learn to let in. (Friendship and I guess it's a daddyfic).
1. Chapter 1

Okay, I tried to finish this before uploading but I don't have that sort of patience. I have five and a half chapters done. I'll update every other day, and I'm sure I'll keep to that because the chapters are short and already planned. There's some drug references and murder, this is friendship and angst. Flashbacks in _Italics_. Shall we start?

**Chapter one.**

Sherlock crouched down next to the body. Salt water was not good for his shoes but you couldn't tell the criminal classes where to dump bodies. As he looked over the body he saw the blonde curls shimmer slightly ginger in the light. The face transformed to one from his memories. The nose thinner, the eyes a more dazzling blue for a second there was a whiff of perfume, the lightness of jasmine in the air.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He needed to focus, he needed to bring himself back into the present. There was the familiar smell of the themes, the wind against his cheeks was cool, his fingers were trembling with the shock of recollection, he could hear two police offices stood some distance away complaining about another underground strike. People always got more stressed when the transport office ordered strikes, more crimes though usual nothing serious enough to involve him though.

"Sherlock?" The voice was tinged with worry. His friend John Watson, he had picked up on the fact that he was not making observations. He opened his eyes.

"Body dump wouldn't you say?" He remarked.

"I guess, Tony asked at that pub down the street and they have CTV camera, not a good view but they might be able to get the license plates of cars in the area at the time."

"Who is Tony?"

"Seriously?" John rolled his eyes and then crossed his arms. "You've meet him three times Sherlock. He works cases with Lestrade, he always asks you how you are whenever you go to Scotland yard and he brings you coffee. With biscuits, chocolate ones."

"I don't eat when I'm working."

"Well no, I eat the biscuits. But still he's a nice guy you could try to remember his name."

Sherlock sighed.

"Tony."

"Yes. So, what do you think? Lover squabble?"

Sherlock looked down at the body.

_A red hairbrush running through curls making it shine, he knew if he ran his fingers through it right then it would be like silk. Her eyes met his in the mirror and her lips quirked ever so slightly at the corners. He smiled back._

Distance yourself. It's just a body. Slight marks on the neck below the strangulation marks, hickeys that's what they call them isn't it? Fingernails printed, lipstick, mascara clumped, clothes expensive but well worn, old. She was scruffy, she'd been redressed, nobody looks that bad if their clothes have been put on whilst they're upright. He undid the first button of her blouse and pulled it down gently to see the soft grey silk and purple lace.

John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock?"

He glanced sideways at him. He'd have to say something before John told him undressing a victim at a crime scene was inappropriate. Why was she redressed? What was the reason? A strange sign of respect? No, obviously not. Something to hide. It would show up on the autopsy.

John cleared his throat again.

"Old clothes, new underwear."

Sherlock pulled down the edge of the short skirt and pulled up the grey silk material underneath. It had been ripped. They'd made a big mistake in redressing her, far more evidence.

"She's been redressed. Don't know why yet. Her clothes are old and worn but expensive, her make up is cheap and not well applied. Her underwear on the other hand is new and obviously costly. She didn't care her clothes were old they only need to pass a first inspection. She wasn't planning on keeping them on for long. Bags missing but she was a smoker so maybe.."

He reached into the inside pocket of her jacket.

"Lighter, things were so much easier when people used matches."

"Why?"

"Because they would pick up match books from hotels and restaurants they're been in."

"So you're thinking she was a prostitute then?"

"No." It was possible but if so then it was her first time. The woman was obviously dressed for an interview. She was wearing the only nice clothes she had. But she was obviously considering using skills not on her C.V. to get the position, perhaps with somebody she knew would take advantage of her position. It hadn't gone the way she suspected. That was the most plausible explanation though their were others. He needed more information. If he used her phone to see what numbers she had called lately he could get more information, somebody would know where she had gone yesterday. He just had to find out who she was. This was likely to be an easy case once they got the victims name.

"Get her to the morgue." He said standing up and looking towards Lestrade.

"Give me any fibers and samples from her shoes. And if anybody on that recording is also in a high office position, business sales or editing, then bring them in If you find them quickly they'll still have evidence on their bodies."

"Them?"

"One murderer, one maybe two accomplishes to move her. We're looking for somebody well connected. Somebody high up in a company maybe finance."

As he walked away he was disgusted with himself for connecting this woman to her.

"Bye Tony."

He said as he passed one for the officers.

John smiled.

"Well done."

"I sometimes make the effort."

"That wasn't Tony that was Lee. He hates you."

"Well then it doesn't matter that I called him Tony."

He caught John's smile but felt nothing, not the usual little thrill of excitement of knowing there was a mystery to solve.

* * *

When John saw Sherlock pause by the door and study the handle he almost expected to enter and see Moriarty. Instead he found Mycroft sat with a cup of tea and a newspaper folded over his lap. Sherlock took his usual time over taking off his coat and scarf and hanging it up.

"He's been kicked out again, thought you might want to know."

"Why would I want to know?" Sherlock walked straight passed his brother and into his room.

John was left feeling awkward as Mycroft turned his page showing no sign of moving.

"So who has been kicked out of where exactly?" He asked.

John didn't know much of Sherlock's personal life or past and whenever there was a slight mention he tried to explore it. Sherlock meant a lot to him, he was his friend and he'd been living with him for over a year. He decided it was normal to want to know how this rather insensitive but brilliant man had come to be what he was. Such a good mind but so incapable of normal expression or concern for other people. The crime solver who did not care for the loss of life.

Mycroft did not answer for a moment. Then he finished the rest of his tea with one long sip and put it down on the table, folded his newspaper and stood up.

"I wish you would switch to the twinnings John."

"I wish you would call before visiting Mycroft."

"Would he answer the phone?"

"No but I would."

Mycroft took a long breath that whistled between his teeth.

"The body found on Thameside?"

"Yeah."

"How is he doing with it?"

"Seemed a bit distracted but that's not entirely unusual. And as usual he's being cold and detached. Normal Sherlock."

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, both of the Holmes men gave him an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach when they stared at him like that. It was like being back in Iraq, that same tension the feeling that something was about to happen but like Iraq he had somebody who had his back. Sherlock had his back.

"If he wasn't unusually distracted then you wouldn't be mentioning it. You must have noticed something unusual even though you're denying it. What did she look like?"

"Sorry?"

"The victim. What did she look like?"

"Uh, five two, slim build, curly blonde hair, blue eyes. Healthy looking apart from being dead. What sort of details are you looking for?"

"I don't know the contents of my brothers heart but I do know he doesn't believe he has one anymore. Not since she died."

"She?" John asked.

Mycroft walked past him and opened the door.

"Goodbye doctor Watson."

John let out a frustrated sigh.

"Is Holmes Latin for cryptic arsehole or something?" He muttered but there was nobody to hear him.

* * *

So, next chapter up in two days. Hope you've enjoyed this and if you have any questions or comments please review and I'll answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

There was a knock on the door. Not a knock really more of a tapping. Being with Sherlock had made John register the distinction between such things. He opened the door and found Mycroft stood there the tapping having come from the silver tip of his umbrella. Behind him was another person. His head was down but John could recognized him as a teenager from the bent over stance. His head was the height of Mycroft's shoulder and hung low so all John cold see was scraggly blonde curls. Then there were the clothes, the shirt over jeans with the rip in the knee.

"Mycroft." John said. "We only saw you last week, didn't know we were going to be starting with regular visits."

"I have business in Iraq, far from the fighting of course."

"Of course, wouldn't want to get your shoes dirty."

"Anyway I have not been able to find another school for the child as of yet so you will have to keep him alive until I get back."

It took a moment for the shock to settle in. Mycroft was expecting him to look after this teenager. He pieced it together, the person who had been kicked out. This boy kicked out of another school, a problem child. He knew nothing of teenagers how was he expected to look after this boy and why?

"Mycroft?" John asked.

There was a bang behind them as Sherlock came out of his room wrapped in his dressing gown and yawning. He paused when he saw Mycroft then his eyes narrowed as he saw the boy behind him.

"No." He said then turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen. John could tell he was aggravated by the sudden speed in his movements.

"Must hurry. I have a plane to catch." Mycroft said then looked at the boy and clasped his shoulder. "Go on."

"No. No. Wait."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed.

"It's about time that he took a little responsibility. He bought the boy into the world so he ought to be able to take care at him. At least for four days. Just provide food and water and a sleeping place in which he won't die of hypothermia, shouldn't be too hard even for him."

"MYCROFT!" John exclaimed feeling sorry for the boy, to have Mycroft referring to him in that manner was not on. John had to stop thinking of him as the 'boy' he had a name and obviously he had some kind of past and some connection to the Holmes. That was reason enough to feel sorry for him. What was it Mycroft had said 'brought him into the world'. John felt his throat constrict at the thought of it.

"Wait, are you suggesting that.. what's your name?" He asked the boy his head tilted just enough to see a rounded chin and a plump lips, nothing like Sherlocks very distinctive cupids bow.

"Felix." The boy answered in a slightly cracking voice.

Poor boy, he's also named after a cat. John thought.

"Felix is Sherlock's son?"

"That is precisely what I am saying." Mycroft said. "Time to go." He said looking at his watch.

"I have somebody working on finding you a new school so be ready when I get back." He turned on his heel leaving John stood staring at him. The boy walked past him and put his suitcase by the chair. He turned his head towards the kitchen door where the noise of clanging cutlery was heard. Then he looked at john and for the first time John saw his face clearly. The perfectly straight nose, the clear blue eyes warmer than Sherlocks, a clearer blue. He had the cheek bones perhaps and the curls of course, even if they were blonde there was something a little Sherlockie about them. The boy was somebody who John would have hated when he was in secondary school, the type of boy that girls would be following around that there had to be some other reason for the resemblance. Mycroft had to be manipulating him in some way because Sherlock Holmes did not have a son.

The boy looked down at the sofa.

"Guess that's where I'm meant to sleep then."

"Uh, give me a minute and I'll set up my room for you." John said, offering before really thinking about what the soft cushions were going to do to his back.

"I'll be back around midnight." The boy turned and walked towards the door.

"Wait, Felix." John run between him and the door. His mind was working slowly because of all the new information but a teenage boy out alone in London at night was not a good idea and he didn't want to know what Mycroft would do to him if he lost the young relative. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

Sherlock was thirty four, that would mean the boy had been born when he was nineteen. John had no idea what Sherlock had lurking in his past, this was starting to become a little more plausible. Except it wasn't, because this was Sherlock Holmes his friend and he had never mentioned having a son. "Right, well I don't think it's quite right for a fifteen year old to be out to midnight in London, or anywhere for that matter. And don't you think you should visit with your ... with Sherlock."

The boy stared at him for a moment.

"How long have you been my fathers..."

"Sherlocks?"

There was a little nod that made John strangely angry and nervous for such a small gesture.  
"His my roommate."

"How long have you been my fathers roommate?"

Again, there was that word.

"About eighteen months."

"But you never knew he had a son?"

"Well, no."

"Well, why would I want to spend time with a man who denies my own existence?"

John didn't know how to answer that and as he paused the boy stepped around him and walked out of the door.

John stared after him for a moment wondering what he could have done to stop him and where he was going. He turned to see Sherlock coming out of the kitchen coffee in hand.

"Good you got rid of them."

"No, Sherlock. I didn't get rid of them. Mycroft left your son Felix here, saying it was about time that you should look after him." John said sarcastically hoping for once that Sherlock was going to correct him. "He stayed here for about two minute and then left saying he'd be back at midnight."

Sherlock frowned and walked towards his room. John knew that he was going to go into one of his quiet moods. He also noticed he had not corrected John's use of the word 'son'.Sherlock who always had to be right didn't correct him. Though John still didn't believe it. not really, that meant there was a good possibility that Felix was Sherlock's son. But Sherlock going into a quiet mood would mean that John would not get the answers he felt he desperately needed at this point.

"Oh no, you are not ignoring this. How is it that I didn't know you have a son? Has he even visited you in the last eighteen months?"

"No." Sherlock said.

"When did you last see your son?"

"I believe he was twelve."

John stared at him for a long moment his mouth going dry. Why was Sherlock not arguing that the boy wasn't his son? It was as if the world had just tilted ever so slightly and John had to get used to balancing in a new way.

"Three years, you haven't seen your son in three years?"

"Why do you seem annoyed at that fact? How does it concern you?" Sherlocks voice didn't betray any emotion as such it was like he was relaying facts in a particularly boring case.

"Well, I just had a teenager dumped in my flat for the next four nights. I think that gets me a chance to ask how the hell you managed to get a fifteen year old son."

"I thought you were meant to be a doctor and surely even those maths are simple enough for you."

"Yes, I can do the maths. You had a child at nineteen. What I can't work out is what you've been doing with him for the last fifteen years."

" I imagine he's been at school. At least for some portion of it."

"The school he's been thrown out of. Sherlock, do you not care at all?"

"No." Sherlock said closing his door quietly.

John collapsed into his chair with a sigh. He could feel a stabbing pain starting just above his right eye. The start of a tension headache, he got them a lot on the days when Sherlock didn't have a case. Slowly he shifted the last twenty minutes around in his head and tried to figure out if he had at some point heard anything about his Felix kid but he reached the conclusion that this was the first. Sherlock had a son, and one he didn't seem to have a particularly good relationship with. No, that was being to flippant, Sherlock had a son that he had no sort of relationship with, who he hadn't seen in three years and who he had openly ignored when brought to his flat. That wasn't good. The next question of course was why? John doubted that the boy could have done anything so bad at the age of twelve to result in him being cut of from his father for all those years. Felix, if only John could view him as a new mystery that had to be solved just like all the others. But he couldn't, this was a clear reminder to him that the man who seemed to play top supporting role in his life, his friend, roommate and crime solving partner was sometimes and enigma even to him. He thought he knew Sherlock better than anybody else, he was proud to be the friend of the eccentric genius, though he wouldn't admit it he had a little pride that he had been chosen by Sherlock who seemed so picky about people. He thought he had been let into a life and a world that not many people got to see, Sherlock was crazy and stubborn and proud but he was also unique. But Sherlock had a son and John hadn't known that very important fact. It made him question what else he didn't know. He didn't like the answer he came up with. He knew everything that had happened to Sherlock in the last eighteen months, he knew practically everything of the man as he was now but he knew very little of what had happened previous to him moving in or what life events had shaped Sherlock into what he was now. The headache was definitely growing. John stood up to get pain killers, it was going to be a long day.

* * *

John looked at the clock. Twenty past twelve. He was starting to worry, actually that was a lie he had been worried since it had started to get dark. He was considering calling Lestrade but then that would mean explaining the whole situation to him. Unless he already knew. No, he had a feeling that Lestrade would have mentioned it to him at some point during one of their nights out at the pub.

Sherlock as he had predicted had spent the whole day in his room, he'd not come out to eat or drink but occasionally there was the strained sounds of a violin playing. John went to pick up the phone then sighed with relief as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He went and opened the door and looked down the stairs to see the teenage boy glancing up at him.

"Thank god." He said.

"No, it was Felix." He said dryly.

"You really are his son."

The boy sighed.

"No." He replied. "I'm not anything like him, I'm not anything like any of them."

"You are a Holmes."

"Martin. My mothers name. " He glanced up the flight of stairs and John had a sense that the boy just wanted to escape him as quickly as possible. John however needed some questions answered and as it was obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to answer them then Felix was the only option.

"Where is you mother?"

"Dead."

"Sorry."

John meant it, he really felt a kind of sadness for the boy. To have been talked about in the way Mycroft talked about him, to be ignored by his father and to have a dead mother, who was looking after this boy? Who did he have? His thought pattern shifted a little and the boy was no longer a troubling intruder but a young boy completely on his own who needed to be shown a little kindness.

"I never meet her." He said walking past and back into the flat, he looked at the sofa.

"So I am sleeping here then?"

"No. My room is upstairs. I've made up a bed for you and emptied the top draw."

The boy nodded and made to go back out to the hallway.

"Wait, have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Look, I can see you and your father have some sort of issues but you're family."

"Family." The boy laughed sarcastically. "Counting this morning when he didn't look at me or speak to me I have only seen my father five times in my life. And he has never looked directly at me or spoken tome."

"Right." John said to shocked to really say anything else.

"I'm going to go to bed."

"I'll see you in the morning then, we'll have breakfast. Maybe I can take you out somewhere. I mean, there are some interesting places near here."

Felix turned and stared at him intently.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you take me out somewhere?"

"I don't know. But you're here and it looks like you're my respectability for now so I might as well find something interesting for us to do."

"Interesting?"

"Fun."

He quirked his head to one side as if he didn't understand the word.

"Breakfast then?" John asked.

He nodded then turned and disappeared back out the door.

John turned around to go sleep on the sofa. Somehow he had landed himself promising a teenager he knew nothing about a day of fun. He sighed, how had he managed to get himself into this mess. Just before laying down he glanced towards Sherlocks door wondering if he was going to come out at all over the next four days. How would he know though? It was turning out he didn't know the man at all.

* * *

Next chapter on Friday. If you've read this, thank you, I hope you're enjoying it.


	3. Chapter 3

Warning: Strong language

John looked through his cupboards. What do fifteen year old eat? He never dealt with teenagers, he hadn't dealt with teenagers since he himself was a teenager. Okay, he could do pancakes and fruit, he had to give him fruit. Five a day, right. God why was he so nervous? Oh yeah because his best friend had a secret love child who he never talked to and something about that felt very wrong. He'd decided over the last few months Sherlock wasn't the heartless bastard he had originally seemed to be, he knew he had a strong protective instinct. Why was he worrying so much? For all he knew the boy was going to disappear again.

"Morning."

He turned to see Sherlock walking into the kitchen with nonchalance style and a bed sheet draped around himself.

"Cooked breakfast?"

"Cooked breakfast, that's all you have to say? Your teenage son is asleep in my bed and all you say is cooked breakfast?"

"Well, is it?"

"It's pancakes, for you son not for you." Sometime during the night the fact that Felix was Sherlock's son had settled into John's mind.

"Why don't I get pancakes?"

"I don't know because you're going to eat them and disappear into you room for the whole day again to avoid your son."

Sherlock stared at him. It wasn't a stare that he'd see before though, it wasn't the 'you're an idiot' look or the ' oh come on' look or the 'I will murder the wall if nobody murders a politician soon' look. For a second he saw something vulnerable then it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

Then there was a look of panic when he heard the door open.

"No." John said pointing at him. "You are not running, you are talking to your son."

"I don't know how." Sherlock said carefully announcing every word. "And you're saying the words 'your son' and awful lot."

"Sit at the table and when he comes in say 'good morning, how did you sleep?'"

Felix walked into the kitchen and sat at the island n the corner, as far from his father as possible. He must have heard every word they had just said, it wasn't far from the door to the flat to the kitchen.

"You're cooking?"

"Pancakes." John said then raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up from the counter to see his son then there was a strange awkward moment as he tried to look everywhere except Felix.

"Good morning how did you sleep?"

"Okay." Felix answered.

John continued to whisk up the pancake mixture waiting for somebody to speak but instead there was just silence.  
"So uh Felix, have you told your father our plans for today?"

"I don't know our plans for today."

"Ah right." John poured the mixture into the frying pan. "Um..." He turned around and looked at Felix and his father. Both avoiding looking at each other.

"So, um.. Sherlock, Felix only has four days in London..wait where do you usually live?"

"My most recent school was in Paris. I've spent three summer in London."

"Paris, wow, you've lived abroad already."

"I've been kept away from England." There was something accusatory about that.

"Okay, so um.. Four days in London Sherlock what do you think we should see?"

"The cold case office in Scotland yard."

"Okay, how about we go to..." John hesitated.

"I think the pancake needs to be flipped." Felix said.

"Oh right." John turned around and flipped it. "How about.. uh the zoo that's fun right?"

"I'm not five."

"Okay, how about the London eye? It's like a big slow fairground ride. No." He answered himself when he saw the expression on Felix's face.

"The dungeons." Sherlock said getting up to make coffee.

"What?" John asked.

"The dungeons, they have an oversimplified and greatly lacking, edited for amusement, history of London crime."  
"

Well, that sounds.." He looked at Felix. "Like an acceptable thing to do." Felix didn't argue.

"Okay, so the three of us are going to..."

"The pancake is done."

"Right." John slide he pancake onto a plate and passed it to the boy.

"So the three of us are going to go to the London dungeons."

"Busy." Sherlock said.

John was about to shout but then hesitated he couldn't really demand that Sherlock spend time with his son in front of his son.

"Okay, well I know you're not busy tomorrow. So you'll just join us tomorrow."

Sherlock looked over at him.

"Fine." He practically growled and walked out of the room.

"He's solving a murder at the moment." John said. "Well, technically he already solved it but there's always something else to do in these cases."

"You don't have to make excuses." Felix said. "Today was the first time he talked to me, you can take that as a win."

"I'm not trying to..okay I am trying to push you together. I just don't understand the situation."

"I'm going to need more pancakes."

"Right"

* * *

John was starting to suspect that this whole thing was a bad idea. Why had he decided to interfere? Oh yeah, because he'd felt sorry for the had that really meant that he had to try an entertain him and end up in a queue that didn't seem to have moved for the last half an hour. It would be fine if it wasn't for the awkward silence. The only questions he could think of asking were the ones that seemed uncomfortable to ask. He waited for another couple of minutes and shuffled forwards a couple of steps then decided that he was a thirty seven year old man and that he wasn't going to feel intimidated by somebody who probably didn't even shave yet.

"So,why were you kicked out of school?"

"Fighting."

John glanced up and down the boy. He didn't look like a thug. He was very average sized if not a little skinny.

"Okay,so uh.. why were you fighting?"

"They had been having a go at me for months. Just cracked."

"You were bullied?" John asked.

"Yeah." Felix grunted.

"Why?"

"How would I know? Teenagers are F-ing wankers they just decide they don't like somebody and they have a go. Once one person doesn't like you then none of them do."

"Right."

"I mean the schools Mycroft sends me too are always really posh, I mean, even if he doesn't believe I should have the Holmes name or whatever he still thinks I should have their education."

"Shouldn't have the Holmes name?" It was the first thing that Felix had volunteered and of course it was exactly the sort of thing that John was curios about. He knew the family was fucked up but this was a new level he hadn't known about.

"That's why he called me Felix Martin. My mothers name."

"And after a cat."

Felix didn't laugh.

"After their grandfather."

"Oh, right. I see"

They shuffled forwards again and John smiled awkwardly at a young woman who was dressed as some kind of eighteenth century homeless hag, with surprisingly good teeth walked past and cackled at them.

"I know where you're going, I know where you are all going."

"Somewhere else if this queue doesn't start to move." John muttered, Felix smirked.

"So why did Mycroft name you?"

"My father was a flake when I was an infant, well his still a flake."

"His not a flake." John protected him. "He's a brilliant consulting detective, solved a lot of crimes helped a lot of people. I can see why you might feel that way though, I mean, there has to be some reason he doesn't talk to you, he's not good with people but it seems a little extreme even for him."

Felix stared of towards the waters of the Thames and spoke a little faintly.

"Mycroft told me once when I was little. I'd been taken to see him, I'd been really excited. I'd never met him and I guess I had some kind of image of somebody who was going to hug me or play games with me, some kind of hero figure but he didn't even look at me he just asked 'why did you bring him here?'. Then I had to be taken away, kicking and screaming because I couldn't understand whymy father didn't want me. Well, Mycroft just said 'it's because you look too much like your mother."

"He doesn't want to see you because you look like your mother?"

"That's what he said."

"And your mother is dead?"

"Yeah, the day I was born."

"Christ. And uh.. you're mother and father were.. I mean.. they were?" How could he delicately ask if he was the product of a one night stand? If he was the result of some kind of drunken teenage mistake that the Holmes brother tried to keep hidden because they were some kind of old money family with connections who didn't want anybody to know they were actually human.

"They had been married for six months."

"Married? Sherlock was married? Wait, Sherlock's a widower?" He couldn't imagine Sherlock ever proposing to a woman. But if she was pregnant, maybe that was the only thing he could do, then when she had died, well a young boy was easier to hide.

"Was he forced into it?"

"No, Mycroft and his step mother were entirely against it from what I've worked out."

John shook his head, he tried to picture Holmes had been so in love as a teenager that he'd defied his family to marry the girl. Then she'd died during childbirth. It was tragic.

"I can't believe this, Sherlock, I didn't even know he liked women, I mean he's never shown any interest." John closed his mouth realizing that it wasn't really the right thing to say to a teenage boy about his father. Even if they didn't have a traditional relationship. Then a thought slowly entered his mind, had Sherlock never shown any interest because he still loved his dead wife? His whole prospective on his best friend was changing.

"I uh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that he's treated you that way. But the past is the past, your mother died fifteen years ago he should be able to deal with seeing you now."

"John, I know he's your friend but I don't care. I don't want some useless druggy as a father anyway."

"Druggy? I.. well I guess he occasionally.. that's mainly in the past." John took a deep 's knowledge from his fathers drug use had thrown him. "Okay, I can see your point. You're fifteen so why would you need that on top of all your other problems. But still, he's family, you should be able to talk to each other some way."

"My mum wouldn't like what he's become."

"How would you know that? You never met your mum. Sorry."

"Because my uncle tells me everything about her. I think we're meant to go in now." Felix said.

"Right." John said, he'd not even noticed how far they'd gone in the queue. He stepped up into the fake vaulted darkened room and paid at the desk. The teller pointed to the corner where a stocks had been set up. She reached below the desk and handed Felix a big rubber axe. He smiled the first real smile John saw as he took it.

"Prepare to met your doom."

"I've already met him." John said thinking of Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings on this one for mentions of drug use and violence.

**Chapter Four**

"And then he ate the scorpion?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus, I didn't know secondary school could be so.. competitive."

"Weren't you in the army? I bet the guys there could be competitive too?"

"Well, yeah. But there was a lot of teamwork, we were all in the same boat and there was hardly ever times when people decided to purposely humiliate another person. So how many countries have you studied in?"

"Just three."

John unlocked the door to the flat. He dumped the bag containing Chinese take away on the table.

"Sherlock? We brought food."

"Felix, grab the plates, they're in the left corner cupboard."

He looked across to see the boy searching through his backpack.

"What you looking for?"

"Found it." Felix said dragging a hard back book out.

"What is it?" John said.

Felix opened the book and removed a square of photographic paper. He handed it to John. He recognized the two teenagers pictured immediately. Though Sherlock didn't look right. It was the way he was laughing his eyes closed,he already had little crinkles around his eyes. He had his arms wrapped around a teenage girl who was smiling widely. Felix really did look like her, the straight nose, the warm blue eyes, and even though the curls going down her back were blonde John would still say they were similar to Felix's own.

"She's beautiful, they look really happy." John said going to pass it back to Felix. He had been so wrapped up in the photo that he hadn't heard the door open or the quiet steps coming up behind him.

"What's that?"

He froze. Sherlock's voice was filled with danger and lacking he's usual calmness. It was not a tone he'd ever expected to be aimed at him. He briefly caught a glimpse of Felix taking a step back.

"It's a photo." John said.

He was surprised when a hand whipped out and grasped the photo tugging at held on tighter without even thinking about it.

"Let it go." Sherlock demanded.

"No. The boy deserves to have a picture of his mother."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then dropped the picture.

"I don't want to see that ever again."

He disappeared back into his room. John tuned to Felix, it was surprising that when he scowled he actually managed to look more like his father.

"That was not good." John said.

Felix didn't answer.

"Look, let's just eat."

"I'm tired."

John knew that wasn't the case, the boy had been bounding with energy all through the day. They'd actually had fun and bonded over laughing at the corniness of the dungeons. He was surprisingly easy to get along with, happy to talk on any topic and quick to laugh and make a joke, he'd even lost some f his sarcasm as the day had gone on. It was obvious that Sherlock had just ruined all that though. John wasn't going to argue.

"Just have some noodles then you can go to bed."

Felix nodded. They ate in silence. As Felix got up to bed John stood up too.

"Look, your Dad, I have no idea what's going on with him but if we just try to put this aside tomorrow and have a good time."

"A good time?" Felix gave a little sarcastic laugh then turned his back on John.

John turned around and walked into Sherlock's room without knocking.

Sherlock was sat at his desk his fingers steeped and resting on his lips. He didn't move when John entered.

"Sherlock, you will get up tomorrow morning and go out with me and Felix."

Sherlock hummed.

John took a deep breath. He tried to be empathic. Sherlock had a wife once, that he'd lost, maybe it had been a shock to see a photo of them. Perhaps it had been awhile since he'd seen an image of her. Sherlock had never had photos put up. Well, only ones of victims and crime scenes.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock turned to look at him. His expression was blank.

"What for?"

"Elizabeth."

Sherlock turned back to the wall.

"I know you think people are being empty when they say that, as if it's just meaningless. But Sherlock, I am sorry that you lost the woman that you loved. But, you made a son together and maybe he looks just like her and maybe there are other ways in which he is like her but he is a separate person and he really needs some understanding of where he came from and who he is and why the parent he has whose still alive has never up till this morning said a word to him."

John waited for an answer but Sherlock just continued to stare at the wall. Sighing, he left him.

* * *

John laid awake on the sofa. It was only partly because his back ached. He had expected that he was getting a trouble child, what he had ended up with was a strangely reasonable fifteen year old. Yes, he didn't seem to want to talk about his relationship with his father but the boy was probably hurting. Yes, he'd admitted to getting into fights but his main career was Mycoft so god knows what his childhood was like. It seemed like he had just sent from boarding school to boarding school. He could never see Mycroft as being a warm person, he could never see him encouraging him or playing with him. The boy seemed lonely and starved of attention more than anything.

Then there was Sherlock. John was only just moving on from the shock of finding out that he was a father and adapting to the idea of Sherlock Holmes as a teenager. What was up with his reaction? Why had he got so angry when he had seen the picture of himself as a teenager. Why did he have sch a problem with his own son? He doubted the boy could have done anything as far as he could tell this lack of attention had been going on since poor Felix had been six. What six year old deserves to be treated that way and what was causing that reaction? Then there was Felix's mention of drugs, how bad had Sherlock's drug use been a few years ago? John had caught Sherlock strung out a couple of times and since learned to tell the warning signs and try to interrupt. The past two days had given him plenty to think of but he wasn't coming up with any answers.

* * *

John looked at the clock, was it really normal for teenagers to sleep this long? It was almost eleven and he was trying to keep Sherlock from going off the handle. He was sitting at the island with arms crossed huffing and complaining about being bored and having things to do but at least he was here, ready to spend time with his son. At least it was a start.

"You know the Russian mafia have been making some unusual movements within London in the last few weeks."

"Really? And what does that have to do with today?"

"I was thinking that the new Russian restaurant in the docklands might be a front. We could go and have a look."

"No. Sherlock, you are spending time with your son. Now, you stay here whilst I go and wake him and if you're not here when I get back then I will never forgive you."

"Why are you forcing this?"

"Because somebody has to."

John practically ran up the stairs to his room. He knocked.

"Felix, sorry to wake you Felix but it's getting kind of late and if we want to make the best of the day then we should get going soon."

Jesus, he sounded like his father.

When there was no answer he knocked again.

"Felix? Are you getting up?"

The second time there was no answer he started to feel worried.

He knocked one more time.

"Felix, I'm coming in."

John already knew what he would find when he opened the door. An empty bed.

He shook his head. He couldn't believe it, he'd thought that yesterday they had reached some kind of understanding. He looked over the bedside cabinet and the pillows hoping that there would be some king of note an explanation of why it was that he had left, where he had gone.

"Damn." John said to himself. He couldn't think of anywhere that the boy could have gone.

He went back down the stairs. When he met Sherlock's eyes all he saw was a barrier. He started to realize that there were even more barriers to Sherlock than he had originally thought. Maybe some of that refusal to learn peoples names or to avoid socialization wasn't aspergers (as was Lestrade's theory) but a barrier against people getting too close.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Psychoanalyzing me."

"How the hell did you know that?"

"You found out a few days ago that I have a teenage son I've never told you about of course you're psychoanalyzing me."

John ran his hand nervously through his hair.

"Look, Sherlock, Felix."

"He's gone."

"Yes."

"Right." Sherlock stood up and headed to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To dress like a fish supplier."

"Why?"

"For the Russian restaurant." He said it as if it aught to have been obvious.

"No. Sherlock, your son is out in the middle of London. We have no idea where he is and I know you could find him if you wanted."

"Of course I could."

"Then why aren't you."

"Because I don't want to."

"SHERLOCK." John practically growled. He'd had enough. If he didn't leave he would hit him.

"What, are you feeling angry. Have I broken some of your allusions I already told you I'm not a hero."

"No, but for some reason I was starting to think you might care about somebody other than yourself." John said grabbing his coat and walking out.

* * *

It took John a long walk through St. James park to calm down enough to come up with an idea. He needed to know more about Sherlock, he needed to work out why it was his friend and roommate hadn't mentioned that he was widowed, why he couldn't stand the sight of his own son or why he got angry over a photo of her. Nobody knew much about Sherlock, not his past on There were only four people who he could think of who had known Sherlock for longer than he had. Molly, who had only the man he was now. known Sherlock a few months longer than John because she'd only started at Barts a few months before then. Then there was Mycroft, who he would be asking a lot of questions when he got back from Iraq. He didn't expect Mrs. Hudson would know, in that case with the woman he'd asked if he'd ever had anybody and she'd had no idea. Then there was Lestrade, which was why half an hour later he found himself in Lestrade's office with a cup of tea.

"So to what do I owe to this visit?" Greg said smiling at him.

"I know you're working but I've had an argument with Sherlock and I'm having trouble getting my head around something that he's done. I just thought that maybe talking to somebody who knew him would help."

Greg nodded. He didn't ask what Sherlock had done, he knew better than that.

"I guess I know more than most what you're putting up with, Sherlock is an annoying bastard most of the time but I know that there's a side to him that does care."

"Yeah, that's the side I'm having trouble figuring out." John took a deep breath. "Greg, how did you and Sherlock met."

"Have I never told you?"

"No. I was thinking if I knew what he was like back then I might understand what was going on now."

Greg sat back and looked at a spot on the wall just above John's head as he remembered.

"It was seven years ago. It was my first day on the murder squad. My first murder, this fellow had been reasonably respectable but he'd lost his job, his wife had left him and to look after his daughter he'd started selling drugs. Unfortunately he'd managed to piss somebody off and they'd shot him. Even worse his daughter had walked in whilst he was being killed and they'd shot her too."

"_Are you alright?" Greg jumped at the hand on his shoulder he turned and smiled at Timothy Hunter, the man who was mentoring him on his first day._

_"Yeah." Greg answered gruffly._

_"Kid's are always hard, anytime you need to take a moment nobodies going to think any less of you."_

_"Thanks but I'll be alright."_

_Greg looked down at the young girl, her face was so peaceful she could have been sleeping if it weren't for the blood haloed around her black curls. She had a t-shirt featuring a boy band on over jeans. They were the same band that Greg's niece liked. He looked around the little flat, they'd not lived there long, there were still a couple of boxes unpacked. He walked into the little hallway, bathroom at the back, two bedrooms. He ignored the first and walked into the second, pink walls, pink sheets, posters of boy bands and clutters of magazines spread out on the bed sheets. He held his hand to his forehead._

"We had nothing but dead ends. We'd gone through every piece of evidence half a dozen times then one of our snitches gave us an address. A house used by the particular drug group we were after. We should have waited of course, staked it out for a while but we had the press on our backs. So, we got a squad and we raided the house."

_Greg licked his lips nervously, he'd done this before of course but there was a this moment before every time. A moment of still quietness where all you could hear was your heart beating too fast in your chest. In front of his eyes his breath came up in wisps. It was cold for an autumn in London. He glanced at his watch, just past midnight. The agent in front of him, a man he'd never met before met his eye. Greg took a quick inventory, helmet, tazer, gun, bulletproof vest, then he met the man's eye and returned his nod._

_The door burst open and there was the sound of feet, Greg took note of the stairs in front of him and then followed down the hallway where he threw himself against the wall as his partner threw open another door and scanned it with gun up._

_"Clear."_

_They carried on down the hallway and found the kitchen to be empty too._

_"Clear."_

_"Sir, we have someone."_

_Greg went up the stairs whilst his partner stayed at the bottom he went into the third room down the dust covered hallway. He saw his mentor Tom bent in front of a worn old sofa that might once have been pink._

_"Ambulance." Thomas said turning around and looking at him Greg pushed the button on his police com and ordered the ambulance. For a moment he wondered if it was another murder but then as Thomas stepped away he saw a body laid out on the sofa, black hair, his arm flung out over the edge of the cushion. The sleeve of his shirt was rolled up, needle still in his arm. He wasn't like any heroine addict Greg had ever seen before. Yes he was thin, pale, black circles around the eyes but he didn't think he'd ever seen somebody in a suit in an abandoned dive like this before._

_"Take all sorts." He muttered to himself._

"I went to the hospital with him. I had been affected by the murder of that girl, it's true the kids stick with you. I was hoping he might know something, it was a long shot but the department had wasted a lot of money on that raid and like I said, the papers were having a field day already. He woke up a few hours later. Apparently he'd over dosed because he'd been clean for a while, his body couldn't take it anymore."

_Greg was almost drifting off himself when he heard the groan. He sat up straight in his seat and tried to look professional and slightly threatening. The man opened eyes, blue, clear and intelligent seeming. He looked around almost as if he was bored. Greg had expected some kind of question about where he was, what had happened? But the man didn't speak._

_"You're awake then." Greg aid standing up into his view. He got his badge out. "Greg Lestrade, Scotland yard, murder division."_

_"Murder?" The man said his eyes crinkling. Then he looked at Greg over in a way that felt rather uncomfortable._

_"The girl, the one who was killed a week ago. Her father was a dealer."_

_Greg felt his heart pounding again. He knew something, this druggy knew something and Greg was sure he could get it out of him if he just trod carefully. He dragged the plastic chair over to the bed and sat down._

_"What's your name?"_

_"Sherlock Holmes."_

_With a name like that it couldn't be fake._

_"Right, well Sherlock, we can come to a deal. Offer you good protection, get you into a good drugs program too."_

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed and then he gave a little nod._

_"So you think I have information. I don't."_

_"But you knew that there was a drug connection, we managed to keep that one out of the press. That's why they're on our backs."_

_Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed back into the pillows._

_"I don't know anything, it was obvious that the only reason you would be here waiting for me to wake up was if it was a case that was quickly going cold and that had some kind of added element that people, mainly the press go soppy over. Like a dead child. That and the fact that you've been in the murder squad for less than a month means that it has to be the little girl and her father in Fulham."_

_Greg stared at him._

_"How did you know all that?"_

_"I didn't know I worked it out."_

_Greg shook his head, he tried to get back to the matter at hand. He'd been up all night, there was no wonder he was getting confused._

_"So can you tell me Mr. Holmes how it was that you ended up in Hallows street last night?"_

"He didn't know anything of course. The house was only occasionally used as a place for selling drugs, use to be more commonly used but had become too well known. As I went out I caught sight of Mycroft, pissed off because he'd been called at the office despite it being the middle of night and because he'd thought his brother was clean, out of rehab for a few months.

I thought I'd never see him again but three days later I found him in my cubicle feet up on my table. He handed me a list of all connections the victim had in the drug world, the people he sold for and the people he sold to. He said the crime was sloppy, and that it was a fluke that we hadn't found enough evidence. He said a load of stuff that I didn't understand at the time, it was the first time he'd pulled all that stuff he does out. But basically he told us me that it was an old druggy needing a hit who desperately followed the victim home, pulled the gun to threaten him for the drugs but probably only shot him accidentally because his fingers were shaking from going cold turkey. He told me he'd regret killing him and the little girl and that the minute that we found the right guy he would confess. He was right of course, the team tracked down the people on the list and the moment the killer saw us at the door he burst into tears and confessed."

Greg sighed as he finished his story and sat straighter on the chair.

"I tried to keep him away but you know, Sherlock's mind. A few months later I had another dead case and I still had his number. It was slow then, I didn't think he could be trusted he'd disappear for months at a time but eventually he seemed to get his life together, it was because he was using his mind, he was distracted and occupied and that's what he's always needed. Mycroft came to my office once, said he needed my help. Said he needed me to tell Sherlock that I couldn't let him help on cases unless he was clean. He wanted him to be forced back into rehab and he thought it would work because for once Sherlock had something to live for. Kind of sad I guess but it was the right thing to do. As far as I know Sherlock has hardly used in the last five years and when he does it's a one off and not continual."

"So you've known him for seven years?"

"Yeah."

"Has he ever mentioned anybody called Felix or Elizabeth?"

Lestrade looked blank for a second and then he leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the desk.

"Yeah, he has. I'd almost forgotten that. Before he woke up in the hospital the first time I met him he was muttering the name Elizerbeth. I asked him who he was but he didn't answer me. Who is she?"

"She was his wife."

Greg did several double takes. John could see the information settling in, the realization that something steady in his life, something he thought he knew, he didn't. He felt sympathetic, he'd been going through exactly the same thing.

"Sherlock was married? Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"God."

"Yes, I know. My reaction exactly."

"He's never.. what on earth happened?"

"I was hoping you knew."

"No."

"Well." John put his cup down. "Thanks for telling me that but I've got to go. I've got this whole big situation to deal with."

Lestrade nodded.

"Good luck."


	5. Chapter 5

"He's at a pub in Camden."

John had only just come in. He looked at Sherlock sat upright in his chair his violin in his hand but not playing.

"Homeless network?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"They are keeping an eye on him so he doesn't get into trouble."

"He shouldn't even be in a pub at fifteen."

"Fake I.D. but he's only had one beer." Sherlock's phone buzzed and he picked it up. "Make that two."

"So what do we do?"

Sherlock plucked the strings of his violin.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it is inappropriate for a fifteen year old to be at a pub. Especially one in Camden."

"Is it?" Sherlock said. "I always see seen year olds in pubs."

"Well they're not meant to be there. He's getting drunk Sherlock."

"On beer? Perhaps we should tell him to get whiskey."

"Believe me a fifteen year old can get drunk on beer. It doesn't take much."

"He got drunk at a friends party two years ago and had to have his stomach pumped I doubt he is eager to relive the experience."

"How do you know that?"

"Mycroft does keep me up to date with the boys actions."

"The boy's name is Felix. However stupid it is it's still his name so you should use it."

"I don't know if you've noticed but the Holmes do have unique names. My father was called Venice."

"What would you have called him?"

Sherlock's eyes grew distant, his fingers started to play a strange tune on his violin that John knew but couldn't place.

"Freddie." He answered simply. "His name was supposed to be Freddie."

"Oh so a frog instead of a cat?"John said. "What was the name of the pub?"

"It's the Camden arms."

"Right." John said picking up his phone and going up the stairs to his own room. As eh walked out it came to him, Shelock was playing a Queen tune.

"Freddie Mercury." He muttered. Did he know his room mate at all?

He closed the door and searched the numbers. As the phone rang he took a deep breath.

"Hello?"

"Hi Greg, I'm sorry to disturb you again but I've got a favor to ask."

"S'okay, just cooking a T.V. dinner."

"How about an Indian?"

"What do you need?"

"Well, I have been looking after a teenager boy and he wt missing. Sherlock's tracked him down to a pub in Camden."

"Why are you looking after a teenage boy?"

"Long story."

"Do you want me to pick him up in the cop car and put the fear of god into him then?"

"No, I don't think he deserves that. I don't know why I'm calling you I just know I need some help and I couldn't think of anybody else."

"Well god know you've done me a lot of favors in the past. Give me half an hour? I'll pick you up."

"Thanks Greg."

John laid down on his bed. To say this was a stressful situation was an understatement. The hardest thing was admitting that he didn't know Sherlock like he thought he did. Sherlock had some how entered his life and become his friend. His life had been boring until Sherlock had entered it. He had though it almost over, he had been a soldier who was no longer useful. With his PTSD he hadn't even been able to be a doctor and who would have wanted to date somebody who woke up shouting. All he had seen before him was a lifetime of trying to manage to pay bills and boredom. And then there was Sherlock, the nightmares had stopped, more people had come into his life and he was being useful.

He'd thought he had understood the man who'd changed his life. He thought he'd brought some normality to his life and offered him the friendship he'd lacked. As well as helping in some way with the crime solving, he knew he was more useful than that skull.

But now he felt unsure about all of that. Because his friend had been keeping a lot from him and he didn't know why. His phone buzzed with a text from Greg telling him he was parked outside.

He was relieved to see that Greg had brought his Astra and not his squad car. John climbed in.

"Hi, thanks Greg."

Greg pulled out and they started on the drive to Camden.

"So what is this?"

"I told you, I have a fifteen year old I'm responsible for getting rat arsed in Camden."

"Is this to do with this morning? I mean, suddenly wanting to know about Sherlock's past."

"Yeah."

"How?"

John sighed. He knew that Greg would find out what was going on the moment that he meet Felix, especially if he was drunk. But he still couldn't bring himself to betray the secret his friend had kept, even if he didn't believe his reasons for keeping it.

"You'll probably find out soon." John sighed. Greg seemed to take this as the answer.

They hummed along to the radio as they drove through the busy London streets.

"What's Sherlock done to piss you off this time?"

"He's just being Sherlock." John said.

"Well I thought you were used to him now."

"I am but I was just realizing how little I casually know about him. He's so closed off. I always thought I knew him better than everybody else but he's got this whole history I never knew anything about."

Greg sucked in air through his teeth making a whistling noise.

"How does his past affect your friendship now? If it's the drug thing, if you think he's using again then.."

"No. Greg, it's not the drugs."

"Then why does it matter now?"

"Because a bit of his past has come back now and is getting drunk in that pub, where can we park?"

Greg pulled over at the side of the road and put a badge up at the window.

"We're good for twenty minutes. John, who is in that pub?"

"Felix." John said.

"Who is Felix?"

"I'll let him tell you." John said getting out the car. Greg sighed and followed him in.

John looked around, it was still early for people to be drinking but the pub was still filled with young people dressed in Gothic clothing. It took John a moment to spot the boy sat on his own drinking a beer. John went and sat down next to him.

"How many have you had now?"

"Ah fuck." Felix said.

"I have to say I'm disappointed I have been trying to be a good host and you disappear."

"I didn't want to spend the day with him."

John sat down and took the beer out of Felix's hand. Greg was hanging next to him looking awkward because he didn't know what was going on.  
"Look I know he's hurt you but I think he would be willing to make the effort now. He has .. friends now. He tries to be less insulting now."

"Don't want to."

"You could be mature about this you know?"

"I'm fifteen."

"I still don't get what's going on." Greg said.

"I hate my father and John nicked my beer. Arrest him."

"You're underage and who is you father?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" Greg said looking confused. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah." Felix said.

Greg looked open mouthed between John and Felix.

"How.. I.. is he really?"

"Yes." John answered.

"How did he reproduce?"

"Well it was fifteen years ago. See what I mean."

"I had no idea."

"Yeah, neither did I." John said.

"I'm the skeleton in the Holme's closet." Felix said.

"I always thought the skeleton in the Holmes closet was the actual skeleton in his closet." Greg said running his hand through his hair. "This is unexpected."

John wanted to agree but decided to be diplomatic, the poor boy had everybody telling him he was unwanted.

"Yes but obviously both Sherlock and Felix are hurting over this and its a tricky situation. Shall we just get him back?"

"Right." Greg agreed. "Come on then Felix."

Felix stood up and put his hand to his head.

"Oh, that doesn't feel right."

"Do you need to throw up?" John asked putting his hand on the boys back.

"No."

They all walked out the pub together. John held open the back door for Felix and he bent down and crawled in to sprawl on the backseats.

"If he throws up you're paying for the professional cleaning."

"He's not going to throw up."

The moment they got in Felix groaned.

"I'm going to throw up."

John looked at Greg and sighed.

"Okay."

He got out and opened the back door.

"Come on. Let's go."

Felix sat up and stared at him.

"Where?"

"Back into the pub so you don't throw up in Greg's car."

Felix sat up and followed John unsteadily back into the pub.

"How can you be this drunk on two beers?"

"Five." Felix stated.

It took half an hour, two glasses of iced water and some toast that John had to threaten the bar tender to get because apparently it wasn't on the menu. Before he was able to get him back into the car.

When they got back John and Greg half dragged half carried Felix up the stairs and dumped him on on John's bed.

"Just sleep it off." John said grabbing the waste paper basket and moving it to beside the bed.

He looked over at Greg.

"You owe me Indian take out?"

"I've got the menu downstairs."

Greg nodded and they went downstairs.

"I guess I'd better see if Sherlock is going to eat. He forgets sometimes if people don't remind him." John went and knocked on his door. There was silence.

"Sherlock I'm coming in so if you are in there and don't want me to tell me."

He never invaded Sherlock's space, t was a dangerous thing to do at times but as he was pissed off the rules had gone out of the window. He opened the door to see Sherlock sat at his desk the lamp light falling across his face. He was staring intently at a photo. For a moment John thought it would be a crime scene photo that he was examining but then he caught the blonde curls and he knew i was Felix's photo of his parents. John closed the door.

"He's not eating." He said to Greg.

They placed their order and John got out some bottles of beer.

"You know I think I don't know him at all."

"To be fair, given the circumstances with the dead wife and the kid I can see why you would think that."

"I thought he was socially awkward, maybe autistic or something but has he just been hurting this entire time. I mean for any normal person that would be devastating, it would affect them for years afterwards but this is Sherlock."

"What you're asking is was he like he is before he lost his wife or because of it?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know, it was fifteen years ago. I meet him eight years after all this happened and he was a mess then but that was eight years after it. I mean, how can a person suffer that long?"

"Well, who would be there for him? I mean all he has is Mycroft and Mumsy who apparently is his stepmother and I don't think either of them is very good at dealing with emotional situations."

"I guess the only thing we can do is ask." Greg said.

"No, I mean, do we really want to push him into something that could make him turn back to the drugs."

"Do you really think that would happen? He hasn't used in ages."

"No, but there was a rough time around Christmas. There was a woman that he seemed to like, well let's just say he noticed her existence as to whether he actually liked her or was just intrigued by her I can't say. But she died and Mycroft rung me up telling me to check to make sure he didn't have anything tucked away."

"Did he?"

"No, he was clean. And he was fine, he just went through one of his withdrawn periods. It lasted longer than usual but then there was a missing two year old."

"I remember that case."

"Yeah, well. I still want to ask Mycroft about what's going on first. It feels like walking through a minefield and in the middle of it all is that poor boy whose never had a proper home or parents and keeps getting thrown out of schools and apparently has a habit of under aged drinking."

"Yeah, that bothers me too. I know Sherlock's got problems but I always through that underneath that he did actually care. I mean,he threw that man out of the window when he hurt your landlady. Oh don't give me that look I know he didn't fall. The idea that he's had a son that he has been completely ignoring doesn't sit well does it?"

"No." John agreed. "Not at all. But we know nothing about any of this do we? I mean, it's easy to judge when you don't know the full story."

"When does Mycroft get back then?"

"Two days apparently."

"Well that's two days of trying to keep those two from upsetting each other too much. I don't envy you."

They heard the bell buzzing.

"Let's eat shall we?"

"Yeah." Greg agreed.


End file.
